“It is a pleasure to look at so elegant a lady. Will you believe me,—I can almost say that this gives me pleasure? And then, thank God! I have good health now, and work has never frightened me.”
She no longer criticised her mistress; she affirmed repeatedly,—
“The senhora is a saint. I have never seen any one better.”
Her countenance lost something of its bilious hue, and of its bitter contraction.
At times at dinner, or sewing in the evening, by the light of the kerosene lamp, a sudden smile would cross her face, and her glance would kindle with a genial light.
“The Senhora Juliana seems to be thinking of something pleasant,” Joanna would say to her.
“The procession is going on inside, Senhora Joanna,” she would answer, with an air of satisfaction.
To such a degree was her envious nature apparently changed, that she even spoke with indifference of a silk gown which the professor’s Gertrudes had worn for the first time on a certain holiday in September. All she said was,—
“The day will come when I too shall be able to wear silk gowns, and fine ones,—gowns made by a dressmaker.”
And by other words like these she betrayed her hopes in a time that was drawing near. Joanna went so far as to say to her,—